Good To You
by Ita-ta
Summary: A story of love, friendship, hardship, and wars to fight and wars to leave alone. BirkhoffOC, Mikita, and Nalex.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Birkhoff looked nervously at Michael, inwardly thankful that he didn't have to deal with Percy as well. "Are you sure that another operative can't do this mission?" He asked hopefully.

Michael bit back the smile that wanted to flit across his face and instead kept his usual frown on. "Positive. Percy wants this done by you." He responded, looking down at the computer technician sternly.

Birkhoff wanted to whine and annoy the hell out of Michael until he caved but knew it was useless as Michael was using Percy as a defensive measure against that tactic. "Oh hell," he muttered to himself, locking up his interface with a few clicks. "Do I have to leave now?" He asked.

"No, you leave in an hour. That's when the flight takes off." Michael said gruffly. He handed Birkhoff the folder and said, "All the information you need to know is in there."

"Helpful," Birkhoff answered. "Thanks." He added grudgingly, and watched Michael walk away to leave him to pack. "Belfast, North Ireland," He read, having pulled the sheaf of papers out of the folder and read the first thing that caught his eye. "Well at least there's alcohol there."

He had to disable the security system of the Lord Mayor's mansion, no reason given, no questions asked. As annoying as that was, he knew that he'd be able to take it down. First, however, he had to attend a ball in order to scope out the lay of the land. He knew that Michael would be so much more suited to that part of the mission because he could be charming and quick with lies, but Birkhoff was on his own.

Birkhoff took his glasses off and set them gently on his bedside table, turning his attention back to the mirror, where he was attempting to get his tie straight. He liked to think he looked okay, dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt tucked in neatly and jacket classily unbuttoned. He ran a hand through his hair, which was less bedraggled than usual. He was to be at the ball in fifteen minutes, which meant he had to leave soon. He made sure the knife on him was concealed nicely, slipped his smart phone into his pocket and resisted the urge to take his laptop with him. It and everything else incriminating was concealed in a compartment under the bed, accessed by a barely discernible loose floorboard. It was also security and password protected, unlocked by what looked like a Kindle that sat in the drawer of his bedside table. He took one last sweep of the room, and set off for the ball.

The mansion was ornate, built with the more Edwardian architecture in mind. The opulent building had columns with engaged blocks on either side of the double-doorway. The lawn was lit romantically for the evening, scatterings of fairy lights among the trees. It was a tolerable 64 degrees for the September night. He walked with the crowd into the building, eyes surreptitiously noting the 21st Century security, the cleverly hidden cameras, the blue light that emanated from sensors on the sills of windows and finally the actual security detail, men and women mingling amongst the guests with a tiny pin on their lapels to signify their presence there.

His initial once-over finished, he took up another task: people-watching. The women were gorgeously made-up, their hair in all different styles and every one of them in a to-the-nines dress. The men were all in similar penguin suits of varying colours and piece numbers. Their hair and skin were well maintained. He felt a little out-of-place here, with his bit of stubble and longer hair. His hand came up to run through his hair again in a nervous tic.

"Relax, mon cheri, you look lovely." A voice behind him made him jump, wheeling to face the speaker.

He was met with a woman, just an inch shorter than him, with a wiry build and lithe body. She had white-blond hair, verdant green eyes and was a tanned Caucasian. She was defying the grandeur of the ballroom by wearing a Grecian white shift dress, cinched at the waist by a brown belt with gold accents. It skimmed just above the knee and had a v-neckline. No jewellery adorned her, just a pair of gold ballet flats. He couldn't believe she was talking to him.

"What makes you think I'm not relaxed?" He countered belatedly, his hand twitching to run through his hair again.

"Your shoulders are tense, your hair is starting to get mussed," She paused, looking critically at him. "Actually the mussed hair suits you, it looks pretty sexy." Her delicate pink lips curved up in a smile.

Birkhoff artfully raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Thank-you, I suppose." He responded after a moment of struggling to find the polite words. "You look..." He tried to find a word that was sufficient enough to describe her, "ethereal."

His words made her giggle, hand coming up to demurely cover her mouth. "Thank-you, cher. That's kind of you." She responded, eyes twinkling. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"Lucian," He answered calmly, keeping the cover information in his head. He'd practised it several times over so that if he were distracted, he'd be able to lie fluently and without suspicion. She was providing a very good distraction. Remembering his manners he said, "And you are?"

"Jacqueline," She held her hand out. "Care to join me for a dance, Lucian?"

Birkhoff knew he had to blend in and stay awhile so being associated with Jacqueline would help him do that. He also really wanted to dance with her. So he took her hand and let her lead him to the dance floor where several other couples were waltzing to the band. Thankfully, Birkhoff knew this particular waltz, and kept up neatly with Jacqueline.

"So what brings you to this ball?" He asked her, curiosity getting the best of him.

"Business," She responded. She allowed him to twirl her away and back, and then seemed to reconsider her words as her eyes trailed his physique. "I suppose a little of pleasure as well," She added teasingly.

Birkhoff swallowed nervously, completing another set of steps. "Where are you from?" He asked, unable to tell from any trace of accent she might have.

"Paris," She said, her accent coming out in that one word. She smiled as the band melded into a tango and squeezed his hands, telling him she wanted to stay on the dance floor.

Birkhoff was a little uneasy at that idea; he was less proficient at a tango. He'd bristled and balked when Amanda had tried to teach him a couple years earlier. Seeing her reassuring smile, he supposed he could give it a try. He was only half-bad at it anyway. So they settled into a rhythm, Jacqueline leading.

"Et tu? Where are you from?" Jacqueline asked, pressing up against him with hands splayed against his back then spinning away from his reach.

"Italy." He answered gruffly, catching her hand as she spun into him again, back against his chest, head resting on his shoulder. He caught the curve of her smile as she twisted against him, foot hooking around his leg as she dipped back, his hands supporting her. He put pressure on her back, making her straighten, slowly unhooking her leg from his. Her eyes were a smoky green now, teasing and sultry.

"You don't seem like it," She answered, eyeing his fair hair.

"That's a long story," He evaded, engaging her again in a quick-step.

"I like stories," She murmured, keeping up with him.

"This one isn't for you, trust me." He answered truthfully, dipping her low when the music stopped.

She caught her breath, eyes fluttering shut with the change in dynamic. Jacqueline felt him straighten her back up, and she slowly opened her eyes, parting her lips to breathe. "Very well, cher. I didn't mean to pry," She responded.

"It's alright, we all have our stories." He answered mysteriously. He steered her to the bar, mapping out the exits of the grand hall, noting which security detail went through which doors.

"What do you drink?" Birkhoff's gaze was brought back to his inquisitive partner of the night.

"Ah, I don't drink much. I'd just be coke for me." He answered, knowing that despite being in North Ireland, he couldn't drink on the job. His resolve wavered when she sat on the stool, some of the dress riding up. She shot him a pout and that decided him. "Fine, but I'll have just one; a scotch on the rocks." He told her.

In just five seconds, the bartender was over; ready to get Jacqueline anything she wanted. "Rum and coke, please." She ordered. The corners of her lips kicked up when the bartender shot a look at Birkhoff. "And a scotch on the rocks," her amusement was furthered when a confused look crossed his face. She met his eyes and he busied himself with making their drinks. "Please sit with me, Lucian. I fear I don't feel very sociable tonight."

Birkhoff sat on the stool next to her, eyeing curiously. He didn't understand why she wasn't out there; talking up one of the many guys he'd seen checking her out. Granted, she just said that she didn't feel like chatting but here she was with him. "Well, you and I have that in common at least." He answered, allowing a little of his sarcasm to slip into his voice. He sounded very much like himself in that sentence. He decided they needed to change track. "Have you enjoyed your time in North Ireland?" He asked.

"Oh yes, Belfast is a beautiful city. I only have a few more days here though," She sighed, slanting a look at him. "What about you?"

"I just landed today. I have a very busy schedule so I'm pretty much nonstop for awhile." He mimicked her sigh and refrained from jumping when the bartender slammed their drinks down.

"Merci, mon petit chien," she said to the bartender, who nodded and walked smugly off.

"You just called him a little dog." Birkhoff remarked, fighting the urge to smile.

"He certainly is. They all are, following after beautiful people like puppies. Not that I proclaim myself to be beautiful," she murmured, hiding a smile demurely. "Clearly he doesn't know a lick of French."

"Clearly," Birkhoff chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. The cool glass felt good against his clammy hands. He knew he was almost finished here. He'd just need to head to the bathroom to sneak down a few halls and see if the control room was located in same place as on the floor plan he'd filched out. He'd stayed long enough to not be conspicuous when he left.

"So what do you do, Lucian?" Jacqueline asked, sipping steadily on her rum and coke.

"I work with computers. Sometimes it can get pretty dull," He answered. He knew the key was to use as much truth as he could. "...Et tu?" He asked, using her earlier phrase.

The corners of her lips curved up in a small smile. "I'm an independent contractor. I do a lot of little things for a lot of random people." She answered briskly. "It can be pretty interesting, most of the time."

Birkhoff finished his drink. "I'm sure it can. I guess you meet a lot of people, then?"

"Oh yes, Americans, Canadians, Parisians, Italians, Romans, Greeks, Spaniards, Englanders, Irishmen and women, Asians... lots of people. Each very different from the other; each has a story." She responded.

"How do you know the Lord Mayor?" Birkhoff asked politely.

"I gave his daughter flute lessons. Irish flute is very lovely to listen to," She answered easily. "Et tu?"

"I help him when he has technical difficulties." He answered, eliciting a giggle from her. Just as he was going to excuse himself, she spoke.

"Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you Lucian. I hope to see you again sometime soon." She said, sliding off the stool and leaving money for the drinks on the counter.

The politesse that Amanda had tried to hammer into his head slipped out. "The pleasure was all mine, Jacqueline. Goodbye," He responded and watched her longingly as she weaved into the crowd and out of sight. Blinking a few times, he shook the surreal feeling away and got up, setting off for the bathrooms.

He slipped easily into the halls, bypassing the bathroom and taking a few twists and turns to stop outside a door. He read the metal plate saying simply, COMMUNICATIONS. This was the control room, the one he'd have to get into to dismantle the security system. Slipping away before anyone could find him, he made his way back to the grand hall, across the cavernous area to make it outside. Then he hailed a cab and called it a night.

The next few days were spent planning. He stuck close to his hotel room, getting room service and working non-stop. He had several floor plans copied out, entrances and exits marked, ventilation shafts that could be exploited circled, the control room in red. He'd observed when the security detail shifted, every thirty minutes. That meant that if he went in, he had thirty minutes to get back out. Birkhoff was covering all his bases, knowing that he needed to get this mission just right. He went over his operation plan several times and finally, decided he was ready.

Nearing one in the morning, he slipped out of his hotel room, accoutrements safely stowed away in the floorboard. He was dressed entirely in black, wearing a black toque (as lame and obvious as that was) to hide his fair hair. He had a knife in his boot and along his arm, a gun at his hip and a tranquilizer needle in his zipper pocket.

Carefully, he scaled the outer wall of the grounds of the mansion, finding easy footholds in the worn blocks. He stealthily made his way across the lawn, avoiding fairy lights that were still up. Birkhoff went to the far left of the building, crouching in the bushes and finally finding what he was looking for. A small ventilation opening was hidden among the bushes and, procuring a screwdriver from his person, he started to make it his way in.

Once the grate was off, he crawled in, leaning the grate back up so it looked like there wasn't anything amiss with a surreptitious glance. He could also get out easier that way. Then he slowly made his way through the ventilation system, finally coming to the vent that stopped in the men's washroom. As nifty as that was, the bathroom being empty was even niftier. He popped the grate out and made sure not to drop it and manoeuvred himself out of the tiny space. He didn't land gracefully, crumpling to the floor as he tried to coerce his muscles back to working condition after forcing them to constrict in the vents.

Finally he stood, sneaking out of the bathroom and sneaking down the halls to the control room. He could see the blueprints every time he blinked and knew he was going the right way. Finally, he reached the corner that turned to the hall that had the door to the control room. Peering around it, he was surprised when there wasn't anyone outside the door. He knew he'd probably have to incapacitate at least two people when all was said and done. Maybe both of them were in the control room.

He walked straight to the door, keeping his tread light. Then he withdrew his gun and held it up, like Michael had shown him so many times to do. He twisted the knob and swung it open, replacing his hand back on the gun as he sidestepped into the room, eyes darting everywhere. Two men were down, a chair on its side on the floor. The door shut behind him and he wheeled to level his gun on the person who shut it. His eyes widened in shock as he took in familiar features.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Jacqueline?" He asked, disbelieving.

The lovely woman who'd looked stunning and ethereal in a white Grecian dress only a few nights before looked, well still stunning, but deadly in black jeans and a leather jacket. The 9mm helped her deadly appearance too.

"Lucian, lovely of you to stop by," she greeted almost nonchalantly, despite holding a gun to Birkhoff and him doing the same to her. "What brings you here?"

"What brings _me_ here?" He asked incredulously. "Why are you here?"

"Ah-ah, Lucian, that's deflecting with a question. Doesn't work with me, cher." She shook her head, a small smile curving her lips.

"You never answered my question," Birkhoff replied.

"True. I'm doing my job."

"What job?"

"I told you, I'm a private contractor. I do all sorts of favours for all sorts of people."

"Private contractor seems a bit magnanimous for that outfit."

"Oh, do you like it? I knew I'd be seeing you tonight so I thought, why not?" She smiled teasingly.

"Don't start with that act again." His voice had gone hard; none of his lilting sarcasm was in his voice. "I don't have time for this, so stop dancing around my questions. Who are you?"

Some of the spark in Jacqueline's mischievous green eyes dulled and she sighed, apparently throwing in the proverbial towel. "I'm Jacqueline, but I like to go by Jack. No last name. I am a private contractor, and I kill people for a living. Well, I'm hired to kill people, or do espionage, or other related things. I was hired by the Lord Mayor to stop you from shutting the security system down."

Birkhoff swallowed a hard lump that seemed to form in his throat. He couldn't help the half-hysterical chuckle that escaped him. Michael definitely should have been on this mission! He'd know exactly how to stop her from stopping him and complete the mission. He could always shoot her.

As if reading his mind she said, "This outfit is Kevlar. You shoot me, I'll shoot back and I guarantee that I'm not going to be the one that'll stay down." Her eyes had a steely glint to them that told him she wasn't kidding.

"Why haven't you shot me then?" He asked, keeping the deadpan going. The hurt his heart couldn't help but seep out was shoved down and away. He did allow triumph to stay, the triumph of realizing his words to Alex had come true. The only reason she could've been so charming to him was because she was an enemy.

"Well I wouldn't want to ruin such a good-looking guy." She smiled, and he could almost believe her. "Also that you'll have to tell your boss what's what." She added ruefully.

"And if I try to disable the security system anyway?" Birkhoff asked.

"I'll incapacitate you and cart you back to America." She responded simply and truthfully.

"How do you know I'm American?" Birkhoff asked, mind racing with possibilities.

"Trust me darlin' I know an American when I see one." She dipped into a Louisianan accent. "But I've got too many accents for you to tell where I'm from. You can't, can you?"

Birkhoff frowned in irritation at her. "No," he admitted, "I can't. What's the plan now, then?" He asked her, seeming resigned to the idea that she was in charge now.

"We can lower our guns and put them away, then talk like civilized people." She started to lower hers first and Birkhoff took one of his hands off the handle. "That's good, progress has been made." She teased.

Once his hand was fully lowered, his fingers gripped the sleeve, activating the mechanism that would let the knife slide through the sleeve to be caught and thrown immediately for Jack's head. This happened all in a matter of seconds.

Jack had seen the action and was in motion, dodging the knife, and charging him, catching the wrist with the gun and twisting it painfully, but only enough so Birkhoff's fingers grew slack and the gun dropped to the floor with a clatter. She followed through with an elbow to the face to disorient him. As he reeled, she held his wrist and retrieved a knife from her waist, pressing the blade threateningly against Birkhoff's neck.

"That wasn't civil." She breathed, eyeing him critically. "You're going to have a shiner," she observed, displeasure seeping into her tone. "I'm just glad I didn't have to break your wrist, which would have made your life a lot more difficult."

"Thanks for your consideration," He responded dryly.

"Well now it'll look like you at least tried to fight me." She snapped back. "I'm going to put a letter in your pocket. Then I'm going to knock you out and deliver you back to your hotel room. You'll go back to America in the morning and give your boss that letter." Taking a deep breath she said, "I better not see you in North Ireland again, otherwise I'd likely have to maim you and that'd be a damn shame."

Birkhoff watched her warily, increasingly irritated that she kept saying things that made it seem like she liked him a little. "What does the letter say?"

"Well it's for your boss. So you can know what it says only if he lets you read it, I suppose." She let go of his wrist and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. It was folded several times, but very clearly just a piece of paper. "No tracking devices or anything. I'm not going to stick anything on you or in you to track you or listen in when you're unconscious. If I need to find you, fate will let me know." She said shortly.

"So your name's really Jack?" He asked. He couldn't help savouring every detail of her.

"Yes, Lucian, it is. Though looking at you, you seem more like a Seymour. Goodnight." Before he could say anything in response, or even fully process her sentence, his world went black.

* * *

Birkhoff woke in his hotel room the next day, startled and disoriented. His right eye also hurt like a bitch and was swollen shut. He blinked his left eye blearily and tried to get his bearings. He was in his hotel room... Jacqueline! He'd seen her last night. It all came back to him and a scowl settled on his features. He was going to have a hell of a time explaining this to Percy, Michael and Amanda. As if they didn't have enough problems with Nikita.

A thought fluttered in his memory for a moment, and he knew it was important, from last part of their conversation last night. But the more he tried to catch the memory, the more he couldn't remember it. He sighed and stood, stretching his muscles and making sure everything was in working order. Then he set to making sure everything was the way it had been and remembered to pull the piece of paper from his jacket pocket. His hat was folded neatly on his bedside table and his knives, gun and needle were sitting in a row beside it.

A sardonic smile graced his lips briefly before returning to a scowl. He made sure his room was locked before shedding clothes on the way to the bathroom to wash up. Finished his morning routine, he sat back on his bed, dressed in a pair of jeans and a non-descript white t-shirt. Then he set to packing everything up and left for the pre-determined flight that had been set up for his leaving today.

He'd only had one cup of coffee and was able to drift off on the plane ride; secure in the knowledge that everything incriminating was triply sealed and protected.

Understandably, Percy wasn't entirely pleased with the news. Percy's face was a mottled pink and stiffly, he pulled out the letter. They were in Amanda's office, Michael and Amanda peering over Percy's shoulders to read. Birkhoff surreptitiously read it from his position at Percy's side. The letter said:

_To whom it may concern,_

_By now your operative should have made it back to the country, safe and sound. He will have told you of the events that have unfolded in the past few days and you will know that he has failed in his mission. Please refrain from turning your anger on him, rather stare stonily at this piece of paper and be angry with me instead. I wrote this in advance of meeting him, so I can't very well tell you that he'd gotten injuries in my presence, but if he fought back he very likely did. If he did, I hope I didn't break anything. I'd likely regret that later. _

_But I've gotten onto a tangent. The point is, your mission failed. And if you send anyone back to North Ireland to attempt again, that person will be returned to you, alive, but likely missing something important. Leave the Lord Mayor alone so we can peacefully enjoy this playground that is our world. Granted, that's not likely to happen, and fate has a tricky way of letting me know that I need to meet you all again, but nonetheless. I strive for momentary peace, no matter how brief it may be. Your operative being alive is proof of that._

_So be good for awhile. Don't interfere with any of my contacts. Also, if you try to find me, you'll fail. All you have is my name. I'm not from Paris, or Louisiana or England or anywhere else. You can't locate me. You can't identify me. The only thing you can do is know my name and know that come hell or high water, I will defeat you every time you try to interfere with me. And you can't do a single thing about that._

_xoxo,_

_Jack._

Percy gripped the piece of paper tightly, paper crinkling around his fingers. He didn't throw it and have a fit. The way that he was holding the paper was the equivalent of that. "What can you tell me about her, Amanda?" He asked, steely and commanding.

"She wrote fluidly with no pauses or intents of stopping. This can be a sign of truth, which she didn't have to stop and think of what she was going to say. Yet, she could have just as easily come up with what she was going to say beforehand and then have fluidity. She writes with no discernable slant, which means she could be either right- or left-handed, or ambidextrous. She writes eloquently and with great knowledge but can be casual and apologetic with her words. She's very contradicting, which I suppose is the point. I can't get a true read on her." Amanda's lips turned down a fraction, betraying her calm voice.

"Michael?" Percy prompted.

"From what Birkhoff said, she's likely trained. Military, maybe Black Ops. She's quick to see danger and she's a very quick-thinker. She assesses the situation before she goes into it, and keeps re-evaluating it as it progresses. She thinks four steps ahead and is good with weaponry. She seems to have the ability to detach herself from her emotions and fight tooth and nail for whatever cause she's leading. She could be one of our own." Michael finished speaking with a slightly marvelling tone.

Percy stared at the paper some more, seemingly reading certain phrases over again. "So she's like another Nikita." He murmured. His tone had turned cold and hard, his icy eyes calculating. "But with the potential to work with us instead of against us."

Birkhoff couldn't help but interject. "She said she's a private contractor, she seems pretty independent." He protested.

"Yes, but she might like the money and a stable place to stay. I imagine with all the missions she does, she's a nomad, never settling in one place. She could have a lot of enemies..." He trailed off in thought.

Birkhoff caught Michael's eye with an eyebrow raised. He was sending the look that said _Percy probably has the most enemies._ He saw Michael's almost imperceptible nod and turned his attention back to his boss. He knew the look on Percy's face as scheming. He also knew that he'd never actually be able to track her. She had laid it out truthfully in the letter, the only thing they possibly had on her was her name. Even if she seemed adamant that was her real name, there was always a possibility that that was also a lie. Everything she did was predicated on the idea that she was untraceable. Before he could voice his opinions, Amanda did it for him.

"Percy, we've no way to track her. Only her name and physical appearance, and the name could have also been a lie and she can change her appearance. What she wrote in her letter is correct. We can't do anything about her." Amanda explained calmly.

Percy's eyes settled on Amanda, softening as they often did when he looked at her. "Then I suppose it would be prudent to keep this to the four of us. If she appears again, we re-evaluate. For now... she's irrelevant." He announced.

Birkhoff met Michael's eyes. They both knew that she was very well relevant, and that Percy wanted her as an asset. They didn't miss the telltale pause Percy perhaps subconsciously let slip. They knew he wouldn't just drop her as a subject in his mind and he'd scheme about it. But they said nothing, because there was nothing they could do. And that was possibly the most frustrating thing of all.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Jack stepped into a low-key internet coffee shop, dressed in a simple pair of dark wash jeans and a t-shirt, laptop bag on her shoulder, flats on her feet. She walked to the counter, requesting a medium orange pekoe tea, eyes surreptitiously scoping out the exits out of habit. She paid for her drink and settled into a corner booth, the wall at her back.

She pulled her laptop out of her bag and set it up, intending to check her email before her old friend arrived. Clicking around, she sipped her tea and read e-mails, progressing to the news. When she looked up next, she was unsurprised to see her old friend sitting across from her, calmly sipping her own caffeinated drink.

"Nick, so good to see you," A genuine smile touched her lips and her emerald eyes lit up gleefully.

"I can say the same, Jackson." Her friend responded, a rare true smile touching her lips as well.

"Don't the old nicknames bring so many memories?" Jack asked wistfully.

"They really do Jacqueline. Though I hear you became quite attached to yours, but shortened it to Jack." She responded.

"Oh, yes. It gives the enemies of the moment a jerk of surprise when they realize that Jack's a woman." She chuckled and sipped some more of her drink. "I hear you've been busy too Nick. A lot of my contacts whisper about you, _Nikita, Nikita_."

Nikita tucked a stray strand of dark hair out of her eyes and surveyed her old friend. Jacqueline hadn't changed in the slightest; such a sunny disposition in the body of a killer. "So what've you been up to?" She asked, genuinely wanting to catch up.

Jack smiled, relaxing her posture minutely at the question. There were very few secrets between the two of them and even though they rarely saw each other, they were very good friends. Nikita hadn't changed since she'd last seen her; the resolve to burn down her old training group after they killed Daniel was still there. "This morning I was in North Ireland. This past week has been interesting." Her emerald eyes turned faraway and wistful.

Nikita knew that look. She'd seen it in the mirror and seen it in Alex when she was thinking of Nathan. She didn't pry, instead prodding her on with an, "Oh?"

"I met this guy while I was working an op," she said, slanting her gaze back to Nikita. "He's a computer technician... or an expert hacker. One of the two," she rolled her eyes. "They're pretty interchangeable sometimes, aren't they?"

Nikita nodded, but didn't prompt her further, knowing that Jack would get on with it sooner rather than later. She could see the shrewdness in her friend's eyes, the fox-like calculation that lurked there.

"He actually reminded me of the guy you told me about, Seymour?" She was careful to leave his last name out of things. Her eyes watched Nikita carefully, seeing the split-second moment of shock before her face smoothed back into that impenetrable mask.

"What did he look like?" She asked smoothly.

"Now, Nikita, there's no need to adopt the gentle interrogative attitude. I intend to tell you every detail so that I know for sure if it is Seymour." She paused, lifting her brows in question. "You're going to tell me if it's him after, aren't you?"

Nikita seemed to weigh her words a moment and then conceded with a nod.

Jack smiled then, and shut her laptop with a click. Then she interlaced her fingers and recalled every detail of him. "He's about five-eight, deceptively muscular build, narrower shoulders, sandy blond hair that comes to his jaw line, has a bit of stubble, darkish blue eyes, seems like he'd have a good scowl..." She ticked off the things on her fingers. "More an alto voice than a tenor, nervous around beautiful women and seems less experienced with weaponry than you, myself or your Michael."

"He's not 'my Michael' Jack." Nikita deadpanned, eyebrows furrowing in consternation when Jack met her with a knowing look. "But that does sound like Seymour." She conceded. Jack's eyes lit up with the notoriously mischievous look that Nikita knew very well. She also knew that Jack was hiding her smile behind her cup of tea. "On anyone but you, that move would be demure."

Jack knew she was talking about the cup. "Yes well, I'm sure Seymour would think otherwise," she teased, then added seriously, "you know me too well, anyway."

"True." Nikita agreed and sipped more of her tea. "So this op...?"

Jack leaned back in her seat, knees spreading apart and arms crossing in a boyish pose. "Belfast, North Ireland; I succeeded in my mission, him not so much." She announced smugly.

"Because your mission was to make him fail his," this wasn't a question from Nikita. She just knew.

"Oh yes, it was. He was quite stunned when he found me in the very place where he'd complete his mission." She preened. "He fought of course. I gave him a black eye though."

Nikita was amused when Jack deflated when speaking that last sentence. "You had to disable him somehow. Just be glad you didn't have to shoot him or break anything. If you had broken anything in his hands that would suck for him," She consoled.

"True," Jack agreed, mimicking Nikita. They shared another smile. "So how is little Alex?"

"She's doing well; she seems much happier to be out now instead of inside." Nikita didn't bother to say Division; Jack knew very well what Alexandra had gone through.

"I don't blame her. But if it meant seeing that good-looking Seymour everyday I think I'd be able to survive it." She made a goofy face and Nikita's mask slipped, allowing her to chuckle at her old friend's antics. Then she took a deep breath, "And Michael?"

That sobered Nikita, her face shutting up right then. "About the same," She answered vaguely.

"So still drop-dead gorgeous, gravelly voiced and dangerously conflicted." She succeeded in making the corners of Nikita's lips kick up in a small smile, "And still off limits. That makes you want him that much more, doesn't it?" She asked with her eyes dreamy and far-away.

"Are we still talking about Michael?" Nikita teased.

"Tut-tut, Nick. That's evasion and I get enough of that in my workday. And we're talking about Michael, even if my mind did wander a moment." Jack admonished.

"What do you see in him?"

"Michael?"

"No, Jack. Seymour."

"I don't know. There's just something about him."

"Well that's cheesy."

"I know. It's hard to explain."

"_That's_ also cheesy."

"True."

"Is there any actual substance in this sudden infatuation?"

Jack made a face at Nikita. "Yes, actually," she paused and her eyes clouded, trying to find the words. "He has this... vulnerability about him. Like he has this sarcastic exterior but on the inside, he's trying so hard not to get hurt."

Nikita considered her long-time friend's words. "That sounds a lot like Seymour." She replied. Inwardly, she was happy for her friend. Jack was exactly the right kind of person for someone like Seymour Birkhoff. She'd be able to peel away that guy's defensive measures to get to the vulnerable guy underneath. She mimicked Jack by holding her cup up to hide her smile. She was getting too soft.

"But is he even worth pursuing?" Jack queried.

"That's for you to decide, Jacqueline." Nikita responded, hardness in her voice.

"That's what I told you when you'd asked me that about Michael. Granted, you were drunk, but still." She flashed Nikita a grin. "So what's on the docket for your next mission?"

"Why, do you want to get in on it?" She teased.

"Actually, if you have room for me, I'd like to." Jack responded seriously and Nikita's eyebrows rose.

"Jack, it's a rare occurrence that I can get you to come on American soil and an even rarer occurrence for you to want to stay for more than a tea-time visit. Did Seymour affect you that much?" Nikita's voice was bordering on incredulous.

"What can I say; he might be the Clyde to my Bonnie." Jack shrugged.

"I certainly hope not, they both died." Nikita returned.

"Yeah, that was a bad example." Jack said. "As much as the memories still lurk here, I want to make new memories. Better ones," She murmured, both gloomy and hopeful.

"Okay, how about we go to my place?" Nikita asked, trying to pull her friend from past depression.

"Sure," Jack answered warmly. They left their cups on the table and gathered their respective things and left.

* * *

Birkhoff was at a loss. He had finished his routine check-up on his system and no one seemed to want him to do anything. Division was in a lull, everyone going about their research into missions, not needing the technological prowess until later on. He still felt like he needed to do something, so he ventured down the hallways to a workout room that Michael often frequented. When he wasn't in it, it was usually left alone. He stuck his head inside the door nervously, looking for Michael. Coming up empty, he slipped inside.

He took off his hoodie, leaving him in jeans and another non-descript white t-shirt. His graphic t-shirts were in the wash at his apartment. He eyed the equipment there and finally found the punching bag. Striding over to it, he toed off his shoes and began his workout.

Two hours later, he was perspiring, having gone on the treadmill and a few other things then returning to the punching bag. He ran a hand through his hair, bedraggling it further. He was running through a few basic fighting tactics when he froze up, hearing the door open. Turning slowly, he saw Michael on the inside of the door, dressed in sweatpants and a white wife beater.

"I-I'm just leaving," Birkhoff said, withdrawing from the punching bag.

"No need," Michael replied, "practice as long as you want."

Birkhoff didn't very much want to practice in front of Michael, who'd undoubtedly been in thousands of fights over his lifetime. "Nah, I've been here awhile." He responded, eyes looking for where he'd ditched his shoes.

"Birkhoff. Stop pulling the nervous-geek-act already," Michael said with a hint of exasperation in his voice. He seemed to consider Birkhoff a moment and then said, "Spar with me."

Birkhoff balked, brows furrowing in consternation. "Can't you get one of the recruits to spar with you? Surely they're better at it than I am." He muttered the second half.

Michael caught the self-deprecating phrase easily enough. "Yes, but you came here with the intention of improving, didn't you?"

Birkhoff hesitated at Michael's words. "Yes, but-"

"No buts," Michael interrupted, "spar with me. I'll let you know if I can help."

Birkhoff wrung his hands together and abandoned his shoes. Then he strode over to the clear fighting area, meeting Michael there. "Are you sure?" Birkhoff asked in one last half-assed attempt of getting out of it.

"I'm sure, Seymour. Now shut up and fight me." Michael answered gruffly.

They both settled into the standard sparring stance: feet equal distance apart, fists at chest height, knees slightly bent and head up. Then Michael lunged for him, swinging a left, which Birkhoff blocked and followed with a roundhouse kick. This Birkhoff didn't block, but minimized the damage by twisting and throwing a punch for Michael's solar plexus. Michael lost balance from avoiding the hit, making his kick lose momentum and therefore have less impact. It was still a strong kick and Birkhoff was nudged to the side as pain receptors told him that yes that kick actually hurt.

"Next time, catching my foot and twisting it would have been more effective," Michael coached, not even winded.

Birkhoff nodded and then engaged Michael in hand-to-hand once more. He threw two punches consecutively and then a kick to Michael's ribs. Each Michael was able to dodge or disengage.

"That's too predictable, Birkhoff. Surprise me," He ordered.

Birkhoff frowned and settled back into an at rest position, trying to arrange his thoughts. "That's kind of hard for me to do. You've fought Nikki how many times?" He asked.

"That's not the point;" Michael said exasperatedly, "the point is that anyone can get the drop on their opponent. Sometimes, it takes a bit more creativity."

"I don't think thinking outside the box is going to help me here Michael." Birkhoff protested.

"You're not going to meet many fighters as skilled as I am." He returned.

Birkhoff's lips twitched in amusement at Michael's arrogance. He was going to make a dig at him by way of Nikita, but then thought of Jacqueline. "Jack seems to be pretty skilled." He murmured.

"For her sake and yours, let's hope she stays out of our way. Percy's too interested in her," Michael said, eyes faraway a moment.

Birkhoff took his opportunity and threw an uppercut. Michael caught his wrist without blinking and twisted it. "Ow, ow, okay, still hurts from when Jack twisted it." He said, hating every word. Michael let him go and Birkhoff hooked his foot around Michael's ankle and yanked forcibly forward. At the same time, his hands shot out to push at Michael's shoulders to help his momentum backwards.

Michael's back hit the padded floor with a satisfying _thump!_ Birkhoff smirked down at him. "Okay, I could get used to—" And he was down, Michael catching _his _ankles with his feet and yanking upward to topple him over. "Damn it!" He swore.

Michael let out a gravelly chuckle. "Rematch?" He asked, eyes twinkling.

Birkhoff blinked a moment, fought the urge to scowl and said, "Yeah, why not?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Nikita watched Jack flop on her bed, heaving out a loud sigh as she did."By all means, make yourself at home," Nikita commented dryly, booting up her computer and pausing to take her sunglasses off.

"Your bed is really comfy. You've got a really nice place here," She observed, taking in the high ceilings, the tall windows and comforting wood flooring. She noticed it was sparsely decorated and had a utilitarian feel, because the only things in it were things used frequently.

"Thanks, Jackson. Have you any other news I might need to know that you couldn't possibly cloak in the coffee shop?" Nikita asked, levelling a look at her old friend. She couldn't help but be faintly amused that Jack's nails were painted a feminine pink.

"Yes, actually," Jack answered, sitting upright. Nikita didn't like the tone in her voice; it'd gained a cautious undercurrent to a relatively nonchalant facade. "You asked me to keep an eye out for a man named Kasim. There have been whisperings about him all over my sources." The corners of her lips turned down grimly. "He seems to have increased security on him. I haven't heard much but I am keeping an eye on him. Kasim doesn't want to be found and he moves from country to country too quick for me to keep up." She flashed Nikita a dazzling smile. "That is, unless I were to put him as a sole focus."

Nikita's lips turned upward in a wry smile. "I doubt that even you could put him under your finger," She murmured sadly.

"This man, he is important to you. In a bad way, I mean." Jack slid into a Louisianan accent, as she was prone to doing when her thoughts drew her into herself. It was her accent of choice over the many accents she'd perfected over the years; English, New Yorker, Russian, Italian, French and German were her favourites."You must want him dead fer somethin' he done."

"I want to help a friend make him dead," It wasn't the same thing but Nikita knew that it wouldn't make a lick of difference to Jacqueline. It was a chain: if Nikita had someone she cared about enough to help that person kill someone they wanted, then Jack was going to help Nikita any way she could. After all, Nikita would do the same for Jack.

"All righ' then, I'll stay vigil. But fer now, what're we up to?" She asked, sliding off the bed to lope lazily over.

"Alex says they've got a target to kill. They're going to the mansion of the target in two days time, under the guise of a protection unit. They're pretending to be the group that will provide security for a party the target is hosting next week." Nikita paused and looked at Jack intently. "She's going on the mission with Michael. Birkhoff is backing them from a technological point."

"Seymour isn't joining in on the fun?" She asked, returning to an accent-less voice.

"No, he usually stays behind on mission like this. They need him too much in Operations." Nikita explained. "He'll be on radio access to Michael and Alex. They'll be accompanied by five other agents."

"Ooh, sounds like a fun fight." Jack smiled deviously.

""The goal of our mission is to get the target out of danger." Nikita admonished.

"Mais oui, mademoiselle," she murmured, bowing her head in acquiescence. Then her emerald gaze lit up as a thought occurred to her, "I get to meet your Michael!"

"Stop calling him 'my Michael' Jack."

"Alright Nick. I'm being insensitive, as per usual."

"I don't think it's a usual, I'm positive it's a constant."

"Thanks Nick. I'll keep that in mind when I'm on the mission with you."

"Oh shut-up, that didn't bother you at all."

Jack grinned at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. "No, it really, really didn't. Who is this target again?"

"Jacob Tanner. He's an up-and-coming lawyer, one who has put many dealers and mobsters away." Nikita answered shortly.

"Bien," She muttered to herself, "and now we plan?"

"And now we plan."

* * *

Alex was nervous. She knew that danger lurked around every corner for Nikita and herself, and she had a bad feeling about the mission that would be taking place this afternoon. She wasn't due back at Division for another hour, just long enough to meet Nikita to go over the plan one last time. Nikita had told her about an old friend joining the mission and knew she'd be meeting this Jack person at the meeting.

She walked into a little bakery, crowded but cozy and conversations blending into each other, making this place ideal for concealed conversing. She spotted Nikita, watching the door for her in a corner booth at the back. Beside her sat a woman white-blond hair, piercing green eyes and a wiry build. That must be Jack. Nikita hadn't bothered with any other name.

Alex strode toward the table, a small smile curving her lips up as she noticed they had chosen the booth with the wall at their backs. Sliding into the bench on the opposite side of the table, she clasped her hands together and laid them on the table.

"Hello," She greeted.

"How are you, Alex?" Nikita asked, noting the slight flush to Alex's cheeks.

"I'm fine, just a little nervous. Everything set?"

"Yes, we've got it planned." Nikita slated a glance to Jack. "Alex, this is Jack. Jack, this is Alex."

"Pleased to meet you Alex," Jack murmured.

"I can say the same, Jack. Is it short for something?"

Jack chuckled and turned to the waiter approaching the table. « Un peu de gâteau de chocolat, s'il vous plait? » She requested politely. The waiter nodded dumbly and left, his eyes lingering over the three beautiful women. "Jacqueline, actually," She answered Alex's earlier question.

"Are you from France?" Alex asked curiously.

"I'm not from anywhere. I'm dead, just like you." Jack answered brusquely. She paused once more as the waiter put a slice of chocolate cake in front of each of them. "Merci beaucoup," She said, flashing the waiter a toothy smile. He walked away, dazed.

"Well that was a cheerful announcement," Alex muttered sarcastically.

"But a truthful one," Nikita said, her tone deliberately commanding. "Now let's go over the plan again."

Jack and Alex focussed on the task at hand, and they reiterated their plan of assault, going over the fine points and making sure they were set. They spent forty-five minutes there, working away on their cake, chatting animatedly. Then Alex slid out of the booth. "I better go; I'm expected in fifteen minutes."

"See you Alex. Good luck," Nikita said, and Jack added, "Bonne chance."

Alex nodded and stole out of the restaurant, heading for Division. Once there, she located Michael and together, they found their group of operatives. Quickly going over the plan, they suited up and headed to Jacob Tanner's estate.

* * *

"Michael and Alex are here," Nikita announced, pulling her binoculars from her eyes and handing them to her blond companion.

Jack put the binoculars up to her eyes and sighted Alex and who must be Michael. He was every bit as good-looking as Nikita had made him sound. "We move?" She asked, already packing up her minimal supplies and slithering against a tree.

"To the kill room, and quickly; we need to be ready for them inside." Nikita instructed. Together, in practiced synchronization, they stole their way across the lawn and into the building without anyone's notice.

Alex walked side-by-side with Michael, sticking close to him as they approached the front double-doors. They were opened by two maids and the team walked purposefully inside. Two broke away at a look from Michael; to secure the perimeter. The remaining five of them proceeded down a hall and into a room to face their target: Jacob Tanner.

Michael sent a reassuring look to Alex just before his mask slipped on and they faced Tanner. "Mr. Tanner, we're securing the perimeter as we speak. Rest assured that your estate will be safe during the party."

Tanner was in his thirties, unmarried and had no family in the state. "I'm relieved," He said, "things have been a little tense with how many people I've put away."

"Yes, well, we're going to make sure nothing happens to you. Alex here will take you to a secured room while we secure the inside of your ...abode." Michael sent a look to Alex, who stepped forward.

She was businesslike in her high-waisted black skirt and white blouse, but sexy in black heels. This made her more approachable to Tanner, which was Amanda's goal in the outfit. "Right this way, sir," She said respectfully, leading him away.

She had ten minutes tops. Alex hustled Tanner to the kill room, right where Nikita and Jack were waiting. Nikita explained the situation to him in quick, hushed tones, and the lawyer was smart enough to shut-up and listen. But something went wrong. One of the agents popped his head into the doorway, seeing Nikita and Jack.

He yelled for Michael and gaped a little at Alex, who wasn't fighting Nikita or the unknown woman at all. He barely finished pulling his gun out before a knife sunk into his chest, just to the left over his heart. He dropped to the ground in an audible thud just as Nikita smashed the glass of the window and shoved Tanner out. She followed and then Jack wavered a moment and leapt out the window.

Alex was just launching herself off the sill as Michael got into the room. "They getting away, come on!" That was all she could say as she took off, rolling on the grass and then scrambling up to run after them.

Nikita and Jack were deadlocked in a fight with the two agents that were patrolling outside. Tanner was nowhere to be seen, but that was expected because Nikita would have told him where to go. They just needed to incapacitate the two agents to make sure they wouldn't tell anything they'd seen.

Alex jumped into the fray as Jack took her opponent down. They fought in a sort of choreographed deadly dance, Jack surprising Alex by twisting her around and pressing a dangerously sharp blade against her neck. Nikita just dispatched the other agent and turned to grab Jack before freezing at the sight of Michael holding his gun in her direction.

"We really can't keep meeting like this," Nikita commented, starting off their usual repartee.

"Then stop interfering," Michael growled, keeping the gun steady. His eyes took in the sight of Jack's knife against Alex's neck and his shoulders tensed. "Tell your friend to let go of my agent."

"Lower your gun, and then we'll talk." Nikita shifted a look to Jack, communicating wordlessly. They didn't have much time.

"I have three other agents coming. Are you sure you want to bet on those odds, Nikita?" He asked.

"Not really. But we kill her if you don't let us go right now." Nikita answered, and to demonstrate, Jack lifted the knife, replacing it with her hand, and slid it across her cheek. The cut welled up with blood almost immediately.

Alex allowed a flicker of pain to pass on her face for Michael to see. She could see his will waver, the fight in him already minutely diminished with every second he spent in Nikita's presence. "Michael, no," She denied and sucked in some air as the knife was pressed against her neck once more.

"I have to, Alex," He answered reluctantly, his shoulders sagging slightly. As soon as Jack started to disengage from Alex, Michael shot her. The bullet pierced her shoulder, much in the same place Nikita had shot him months before.

Jack let out a string of very colourful curse words, staggering with the shot. Nikita had taken her opportunity to run; as Jacqueline knew she would. She was glad her friend got out of there; glad that their silent communication had remained unchanged over the years. Then she turned on Alex, making the spectacle as convincing as possible.

But Alex was quick to pick up on her intent too, and met her attack. Her open palm slammed into the bloody hole the bullet had made in Jack's shoulder. She fell to her knees and Michael took it from there. He'd come up behind her and hit her upside the head with the gun. Jack's head snapped to the side and she fell over in a boneless heap.

"Gold star," Michael breathed to Alex, referring to how she handled herself. "Nikita got away with Tanner?"

"I think so. He wasn't here when I arrived so I think they had a car ready." Alex breathed.

"Great," Michael said grimly. "Let's get out of here." He hefted Jack's body into a Fireman's carry and watched Alex pick up the knife that had slipped from Jack's unconscious grip. Then he proceeded to find his men, clean up the mess and get out of there. There was going to be hell to pay.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Jacqueline woke to a concrete room, a head-ache, a searing pain in her shoulders and a black eye. She was also suspended, wrists manacled to dangling metal bands that hung from chains in the ceiling. Her feet didn't touch the ground. She felt oddly bereft, and realized that all she'd been left in was her black skin-tight shorts and camisole. Her outerwear was Kevlar in the important places and thus discarded.

Of course, the Kevlar wasn't in the place where she got shot, so that wasn't helpful at all. She observed the snowy-white bandages with emotionless detachment. They'd taken the bullet out and cleaned the wound, but never gave her any anaesthetics, she could tell. She looked up from her one good eye and saw a male agent staring composedly back at her.

"Well damn, you don't know a thing about Southern hospitality, d'you?" She'd slipped into her Louisianan accent, keeping the pain from her voice.

The agent mutely turned and pressed a button, using the intercom. "She's conscious."

"Descriptive of you really," She quipped to her silent vigilant. Minutes later, she watched a woman come into the room. One with light brown hair neatly cut and styled, with icy blue eyes. Jack remembered Nikita saying her name was Amanda. Jack summoned her resolve; knowing what was to come.

"Hello there, I'm Amanda." She introduced herself, striding purposefully into the room. "We never were able to catch your name."

"Marie," Jack said shortly.

"Well Marie, you must know why you're here." Amanda said coolly.

"Apparently it's a bad thing t'try an'save some'uns life." She answered dryly, thickening her accent.

"How did you know he needed saving in the first place?" Amanda asked.

"I jus' gotta feelin' about it." She answered unhelpfully.

Amanda changed tracks, "The other woman, did you know her very well?"

"Oh nah, we jus' met th'other day. Just happened t'be at the wrong place the wrong time," she answered easily.

Amanda looked like she was going to say something else before someone knocked at the door. Her lips turned down for a millisecond to show her displeasure. "Come in," She called, knowing it had to be important. She was vaguely surprised when Birkhoff, Michael _and_ Percy walked in. "Is there something you need help with?" She asked coolly, but then frowned at the stunned expression on Birkhoff's face.

Percy and Michael noticed it too. "What is it?" Percy snapped.

The words tumbled out of Seymour before he could stop himself. "That's Jack."

"This is Jack?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Why would I ever say it was her if it weren't her?" Birkhoff asked dryly.

Percy's icy gaze glittered with something menacing, something snake-like. "What have you found, Amanda?"

"Nothing yet, we just got started." Amanda considered for a second. "She's very good at slipping masks on."

Percy approached Jack, looking at her intently. "I suppose fate did want us to meet again," He wondered, a vicious tone to his voice.

Jack showed no reaction to her words being thrown back at her. She just continued to stare silently at them all as if they were fascinating fish in a tank.

"You're sure it's her, Birkhoff?" He asked, swivelling his gaze to the computer technician.

"Yes," Birkhoff answered, brows creasing in consternation.

"My, my, my. I thought you said we'd never find you, Jack." He taunted.

"Yeah well, fate can be a real bitch sometimes." She responded crassly.

Percy surprised them by chuckling. "So, Jack, now that we've dropped the pretenses, what were you doing with Nikita?" His tone was deliberately casual.

"Depends on who Nikita is to you," Jack responded, verdant green eyes unblinking.

"She was someone important to us," Percy paused purposefully, "until recently." Something glittered in the green depths of Jack's eyes and he didn't like it. He was the one that was supposed to be ahead of her. "You'll tell us everything you know about Nikita, won't you?"

The corner of her lips quirked up in a twisted grin in response to Percy's threatening tone. "It isn't nice to ask of someone a favour before introducing themselves."

Percy would not be pushed, but he knew he had to keep her complacent to get what he wanted. "I'm Percy," He said smoothly, "that's Amanda, as you know, and Michael. You must have already met our Birkhoff." His voice had changed, lilting and dangerous. "Come see our guest, Birkhoff."

Birkhoff stepped forward, keeping his face smoothly detached. His heart had started to beat quickly when he'd seen her but now it was almost erratic. "What does she have to do with Nikita?" He couldn't look at her for long.

Percy met the computer technician's eyes briefly. "She was with her, helping her save Tanner."

Birkhoff's jaw tensed at those damning words. "Guess we can rule out her working with us," He quipped weakly.

"Not yet," Percy responded grimly. "Jack, you've been oddly silent, don't you have anything to say?"

"Sorry about the black eye." She answered dryly. Then she lifted her emerald eyes to Birkhoff's gaze imperiously, chin jutted out in challenge.

"It didn't hurt much," he shot back, lip curling. His defensive armour was sliding into place. "You didn't seem very easy to catch in North Ireland."

Jack's eyes hardened from the jab of his words. "I didn't get shot in North Ireland." Her voice was frosty."I knew you weren't a Lucian. Percy, Michael, Amanda. Why don't you have a first name?"

"I do, but you're never going to learn it." Birkhoff snapped back. Something twisted in his stomach at the realization that this was nothing like the easy conversation they'd had that night.

"Really? You know, when I was a little girl, I went to see a musical. Would you like to guess what musical it was?" Her tone was dreamlike but her eyes kept him enraptured.

"No," he refused brusquely.

"Alright then," Her voice turned to the present, flat and cold. "It was Little Shop of Horrors. Would you like to know my favourite song from it?"

Birkhoff's skin crawled when he looked into her eyes, green and snakelike. He had a foreboding feeling as he weakly said, "Not really."

They were all startled as she started to sing. "Suddenly Seymour, is standing beside me!" Her voice was not like anything Birkhoff had heard before. It was a soprano, befitting of the song. It was beautiful. "He don't give me orders, he don't condescend. Suddenly Seymour, is here to provide me sweet understanding. Seymour's my friend." She took a breath, highlighting the bruise that descended from her eye to her cheek. "You look like a Seymour, Birkhoff."

Birkhoff didn't know what to say. He wasn't equipped for this. Thankfully, Percy chose that moment to step into the conversation again, disregarding the episode. "Jack, I'm not going to ask again, what do you know about Nikita?"

Jack wasn't listening to him. Her emerald eyes were looking sadly at Birkhoff. "Not a lick, nor a wink, nor a twinkle of an idea." She muttered.

Percy nodded at Michael, who stepped forward and dug his finger into the white bandage on her shoulder, directly where the bullet hole was. He met her eyes when they flashed to him, but inwardly, his mind staggered at the innocence in her eyes. There wasn't supposed to be any innocence in her eyes, he knew she'd killed at least one of his men without batting an eyelash. "Nikita," He prompted.

"Little Michael," She smiled at him, her face transforming to her usual sunny disposition. "You know as well as I do of Nikita, don't you?" Her question was rasped, only for Michael to hear.

His eyes widened. "Stop toying and tell us what you know!" He demanded.

"I know a lot, and very little. I know how to throw knives, how to incapacitate people, how to bake an apple pie." She announced cryptically. Abruptly, her feet swung up and she kicked Michael in the face, snapping his head to the side. Her eyes glittered dangerously. "I know that knowledge is a privilege and _that_ is a privilege you'll never gain."

Percy's eyes showed cold calculation. He honestly hadn't seen that coming, so he didn't blame Michael in the least for being caught off-guard. She was feisty and loyal, calculated and cold, but still seems to retain a naturally sunny disposition. "Michael, Birkhoff, let's go; we've things to attend to. Perhaps little Jack will be more willing to speak to us after spending some time with Amanda." Birkhoff was already at the door and Michael stonily followed, refusing to touch his face. "Oh, Amanda? Leave her face alone."

Amanda nodded as the three men left the room. Then she pulled on some surgical gloves. "Do you know how it feels to have each finger broken in succession?"

* * *

It was hours later and Birkhoff couldn't focus on anything. His mind kept drawing back to thoughts of _her_, of Jack. Of Jack at the hands of Amanda, enduring the horrors of torture; he knew bones would be broken. Finally he got up from his computer chair in Operations to go find Michael. He was the only person that Birkhoff could possibly talk to about it.

He found Michael in the shooting range. Watching him fire off shots, Birkhoff focused only on the noise, to get the thoughts of Jack out of his head.

"Did you need something, Birkhoff?" Michael asked, firing two more shots dead in the head.

"How do you do it?" He blurted before he could stop himself.

"Do what?" Michael asked, turning the safety on and putting the gun down.

"Focus on other things when you know that Nikki is out there right now, planning her next move?" Birkhoff answered.

Michael lifted his gaze to Birkhoff, who tried his best not to flinch. "Why would you ask me that?" Michael's lips curved up as he realized the potential to tease the computer analyst. "Are you thinking of someone?"

Heat crept up his neck as blood flushed his cheeks. "N-No, not really," he denied weakly, shaking his head.

Taking pity on Birkhoff, Michael strode over to the shorter man and put a hand on his shoulder. "It takes self-control. I think a part of my mind will always wonder about Nikita." He said very seriously.

"Do you think she'll break?" Birkhoff asked.

"If she's anything like Nikita, it'll take a lot." Michael answered grimly.

"And a part of you is always thinking of Nikki?"

"Yeah, I guess." Michael conceded and then looked seriously at Birkhoff. "If you tell anyone about this conversation, I'll have you singing _Suddenly Seymour_ in front of every recruit." Birkhoff's eyes widened so much that Michael had to fight not to chuckle, but settled for a brief grin.

Looking relieved, Birkhoff nodded hesitantly. "I guess we're in the same boat now."

"Who said they had any feelings for us?" Michael asked.

"Our hope," Birkhoff answered, grimacing at the words.

Michael said nothing, striding back and switching the safety off. When he started firing more rounds, Birkhoff quietly slipped away, knowing their moment of camaraderie was over.

Besides thoughts of Jack, one particular thought was niggling at the corner of his mind. That bizarre episode with Jack singing had him thinking. The thought was there, in his head, but he couldn't form the words. Leaning back in his computer chair, he ran a hand through his tousled hair. "She knew I wasn't a Lucian..." He mumbled to himself. Then the thought presented itself to him. "She knew exactly who I was in North Ireland!" He exclaimed, jumping out of his seat.

His thoughts were racing, telling him what she'd said that night she'd knocked him out. "_Though looking at you, you seem more like a Seymour._" She'd known exactly who he was, and therefore she must be much better friends with Nikita than they first thought. Jack knew exactly who they were and what they were; he just knew it.

He navigated his way back to the room where Amanda and Jack were. He could hear the involuntary sounds of pain that were coming from Jack and he knocked on the door hesitantly. There was a pause in the noises and Amanda swung the door open with a questioning look.

"Can I... can I talk to Jack alone? I think I can get something out of her." He said. Then realizing his words, he quickly backtracked. "I mean, not that you can't but-"

"You can talk to her. Use the intercom system when you're done to get me." Amanda said coldly, sidling out with the two men that usually accompanied her. Birkhoff noted the blood on her gloved hands with a sinking stomach.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside the room. The door shut with an audible-if a little ominous-click and he lifted his eyes to face Jack.


End file.
